


Something Like Home

by Sunnyrea



Series: The War [21]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Historical, M/M, Valley Forge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 06:43:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15835893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: The last day of the Continental Army's encampment at Valley Forge and a farewell to a strange sort of home for Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens





	Something Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a bit nostalgic and gushy but, it is the end of the Valley Forge arch (though don't worry, with my jump around the time line there will be more Valley Forge stories written).

The morning activity of George Washington’s headquarters at Valley Forge bustles with such movement and noise as to allow none to sleep past the hour of six. Indeed, Alexander Hamilton dressed with the hurry of a battle ahead, despite a lack thereof. His bedmate of that past evening, Tench Tilghman, was out the door of their room half an hour before him to God knows where. Richard Kidder Meade left their house before Hamilton saw him that morning, likely riding with orders to their Generals spread across the outlying land of Philadelphia; John Fitzgerald ridden out even before him. James McHenry left with Benjamin Walker, from Baron von Steuben’s office, as soon as Hamilton came downstairs on some issue of horses. The remainder of the aides–de–camp hurry around the house, grabbing letters to reply to or rushing out the door to finalize preparations to leave their winter encampment the following day.

“You have letters ready to write, Hamilton,” Robert Hanson Harrison says as Hamilton takes the offered tray of mugs, coffee and milk from a kitchen maid – young with rosy cheeks and gray eyes and Hamilton does not recognize her.

“Indeed,” Hamilton says, dodging a Private who appears to have just delivered some more correspondence. “I think perhaps we all may.”

“Responses from the Council of War last evening,” John Laurens says as he takes one of the mugs and the jug off of Hamilton’s tray as Hamilton enters the aide–de–camp office at the front of the house.

The tray wobbles in Hamilton’s hands what with the change of weight distribution. He stops the lot from toppling, however, just before Laurens places the jug back on the tray.

“You might have more care for the state of the whole,” Hamilton snips.

Laurens looks up at Hamilton as Laurens sits at the table and sips his black coffee with a grimace. His expression shifts into confusion as he swallows. “What?”

Hamilton only sighs and puts the coffee service down on a far side of the table. He pours some coffee into a mug for himself, leaving it black. Then he picks up the small milk pitcher and pours some into the mug still held in Laurens’ hand. He chooses one of the two spoons on the service, stirs quickly in Laurens’ mug then drops it back with a clatter onto the tray. Laurens’ lips press tight with a suppressed smile. 

Hamilton sits in front of his waiting stack of correspondence and jotted notes for letters cattycorner to Laurens. Hamilton slides one of the pages of notes toward himself, Harrison’s handwriting, about an order to General Anthony Wayne to be ready to march by two that afternoon. “Wayne shall march ahead?”

Laurens nods, bent over some papers of his own, a page in French from a Duportail, Hamilton notices at his left. “Yes, some shall march today but the whole shall march early tomorrow.”

“We march at five tomorrow morning,” Harrison says as he enters the room, some letters in hand which he places on the table nearer the door across from Hamilton and Laurens. He smiles over at them. “Just in time to join the sun.”

Hamilton blows out a breath, foreseeing little sleep for their lot come evening. However, the British, by all accounts, leave Philadelphia now for some place further north and the Continental army must follow.

Hamilton pulls a fresh sheet of paper toward himself and chooses a quill from the stand between himself and Laurens. “And what do our Generals say by way of His Excellency’s questions to the council? Do we attack Philadelphia as the enemy retreats or wait their evacuation?”

Laurens looks up from his translation toward Harrison as well at Hamilton’s question.

Harrison shakes his head. “Most advise we keep our position such is the uncertainty of the enemy’s numbers and the direction of their march once in New Jersey, but we do not have every reply yet.”

“Caution...” Laurens says with some derision to his tone of voice, but it is not hot. Hamilton surmises Laurens must understand the prudence of such advice despite his usual mode of action.

“It seems prudent,” Hamilton says giving voice to his thoughts as he dips his quill in ink.

Harrison nods, as he shifts the letters he put on the table around into piles. “We shall pursue them soon enough and we have much to do in securing the city itself.” He looks over at their table again and gestures to Hamilton. “I believe you should have a note to write for a James Mease?”

Hamilton looks down at his pile, shifting about the pages. “I... should think...” Laurens leans over and taps a finger on one sheet underneath a letter from General Cadwalader. Hamilton pulls it up as he looks to Harrison again. “Supplies?”

Harrison nods again. “Yes, purchase and to seize.”

“I write to Wayne now but –”

“But Mease first, I think,” Harrison says.

“Do you not want Wayne prepared?” Hamilton counters.

“I want every piece of supply we may acquire in Philadelphia before the residents take what the British left for themselves,” Harrison says with a pointed look.

Laurens huffs once. “You sound as cynical as Hamilton’s usual charge.”

Hamilton raises an eyebrow at Laurens just as Harrison sighs and shakes his head as he walks back out the door of their office. “On a day as busy as this I give myself leave to be maudlin as I should choose.”

“Complain less, Harrison, read more,” General Washington calls loud enough for Hamilton and Laurens to hear as Harrison turns toward His Excellency’s office.

Hamilton and Laurens make the same noise of amusement and glance at each other. Laurens takes a drink of his coffee, still looking at Hamilton. Hamilton’s lips twitch and his gaze follows Laurens’ lips as they pucker around the mug then quirk up in a smile at him. His pulls his eyes up as Laurens trails a finger over the knuckles of Hamilton’s hand around his quill. Then Hamilton pulls his eyes away back to his letter, Laurens turning back to his own. As much as he would wish to gaze at Laurens all day, touch his hand and lips and more, they have much to accomplish on a day with the enemy marching and soon themselves too.

Hamilton writes with quick strokes, replenishing his ink every few words – _seize public stores left behind by enemy._ Laurens shifts in his seat, just as quiet and diligent, his boot brushing Hamilton’s. Hamilton blows on his finished page and thinks of how many days they have been allowed to sit so close at work, how they had a room to share in this house for such a long time. Laurens slides the sealing wax toward Hamilton from the far side of the table in expectation of Hamilton’s need. Hamilton has an odd pang in his chest at so simple a gesture – no need for words.

“Blast...” Laurens says suddenly with the sound of something snapping.

Laurens puts aside his newly broken quill. Hamilton hands Laurens another before Laurens may ask or even reach out. Laurens smiles at him, something fond on his face.

“I shall miss this,” Laurens says quietly, their fingers touching on the quill.

“What?” Hamilton asks.

Laurens’ finger slides up Hamilton’s finger. “This.”

“We shall still be in the same office.”

“Not the same office.”

Hamilton gives Laurens a look. “Should you miss the table or the benches more?”

Laurens tilts his head and his eyes wander before switching back to Hamilton. “I should miss other things more perhaps but... this room I think unlike to be matched for a sense of familiarity.” 

Hamilton wants to say something like ‘home.’ 

Then Tench Tilghman appears in the door with Caleb Gibbs behind him, talking animatedly. Hamilton and Laurens pull their hands back to their letters quickly.

“– she is to return as soon as our departure and if we may not pay our troops I should at least pay her,” Gibbs finishes as they cross to the unoccupied table.

“I am not against your thoughts, Gibbs,” Tilghman replies. “This house has served us well and Ms. Hewes has been called on to receive her monies.”

Tilghman shuffles through the papers and books lined up in the rack against the wall as Hamilton returns to writing.

“Did we not write her a receipt?”

“Have you written it at all yet?” Gibbs asks.

“McHenry said something of payment before he went out this morning,” Laurens says without looking up.

Hamilton sees Gibbs and Tilghman both turn out of the corner of his eye.

“To whom?” Gibbs asks.

Laurens cocks his head. “To whom did he speak?”

“To whom did he pay?”

“I think your grammar wrong,” Hamilton mutters.

“I think I would know whom McHenry thinks he may pay.”

“He did not say McHenry paid anyone,” Tilghman counters.

“Laurens,” Gibbs hisses. “What of McHenry?”

Laurens finally looks up. “I am not his keeper.”

Hamilton snorts quietly to himself in the same moment that Gibbs sighs.

“Laurens, some help you provide,” Tilghman says crassly.

Laurens frowns. “I translate French, allow me to do so and chase McHenry yourselves.”

“Keep your cheek,” Gibbs snaps as he turns toward the door.

Hamilton glances at Laurens as he looks up with some remorse at Gibbs’ annoyed retreat. The pair of them turn to Tilghman again. Tilghman raises his eyebrows. “Be glad you do not run about the camp on payments and final preparations but may write instead.”

“Our hands may disagree later,” Hamilton says in as much cheer as he may.

Tilghman smiles slowly at him. “Good luck.” Tilghman then turns from the room after Gibbs. 

Hamilton shoots a vaguely reproachful a look at Laurens.

Laurens sighs, “I am aware. I merely fear our last day here to be one of little rest.”

“Indeed.”

The two of them work quietly for another hour or more. Harrison appears several times, leaving opened letters in his various piles, likely responses from their Generals. He sits with them once to pen a brief letter but His Excellency calls Harrison back almost as soon as he completes it. Hamilton finishes his notes to Mease and Wayne while Laurens continues with his translation. Hamilton begins a letter to William Duer in regards to the Baron. The Baron’s position with the army, especially now that his training regimen is complete, remains tenuous and not well defined to the Baron’s liking. Hamilton should wish to help him but also ensure the Baron does not overstep his ambition as the Baron can be, as many powerful men, overzealous in his own regard at times. Hamilton is interrupted in this letter several times for other pressing orders and requests to send by Harrison or new riders arrived at their office which need his writing.

“Boudinot?” Hamilton asks as Harrison hands him another note from His Excellency.

“Path of the enemy,” Harrison taps the paper, “and the status of Philadelphia.”

“I would ask they move faster now,” Laurens says, “so we could at least be decided of their location.”

“All New Jersey?”

“Quite, and then we could just march and find a time for battle instead of writing back and forth of ‘where might they be?’”

Hamilton chuckles once and brushes finger tips over Laurens’ hand where he keeps his place at a line low on his French letter. Laurens breathes out softly in a contented way and Hamilton thinks them lucky to write all day like this.

Not five minutes after Hamilton finishes his letter to Boudinot and Laurens moves to the final page of his French, John Fitzgerald marches into their office wearing his riding cloak, bag over his shoulder and his hat under his arm.

“Fitzgerald!” Hamilton says. “I feel it still a surprise to see you each time you enter a room. Did you care for Virginia so much?”

Fitzgerald lightly hits Hamilton’s shoulder with his hat. “I have been back some days, Ham.”

“Indeed,” Laurens says into his papers, “his snores make no mistake.”

“It is your own you hear.”

Laurens looks up sharply. “How dare.”

Fitzgerald grins. “Would you prefer silence?”

“Yes.”

“Pity for you.” Fitzgerald shifts his weight and pulls the bag off his shoulder. “Now, I am sent toward Philadelphia. What do you have for me?”

Hamilton holds up his letter. “This one is newly sealed, be careful.”

“I shall not smudge.”

“Are you riding about all day?” Laurens asks.

“Indeed, would you prefer a trade?”

“My French is bound here now.”

“Ah yes,” Fitzgerald says, “and not your steed.”

Laurens chuckles. “I am near done.”

Hamilton looks at Laurens in some concern. “Do you plan to ride out?”

Laurens shakes his head. “I suspect my pile of writing shall grow as yours soon enough.”

Harrison appears in the doorway holding out a few letters in his own hand. Fitzgerald smiles and takes the letters, putting them into his bag with the others from Hamilton. ‘Thank you,’ Harrison mutters almost unintelligibly as he turns away back toward General Washington’s office. Hamilton worries the General runs Harrison too hard this day.

“And more for me.” Fitzgerald closes his bag and puts his hat on his head. “Good day, sirs.” Then he turns and exits once more by the front door.

Hamilton looks at Laurens again as the door closes, the other man looking back at him. “For a busy day it seems somehow peaceful.”

“Yes,” Laurens replies quietly. “The office as much our own?”

Hamilton smiles slowly, the tips of his fingers bushing the back of Laurens’ hand once more; he cannot seem to stop them straying today. “How many times have we been allowed this?”

“Few,” Laurens replies quickly. “More so we find this room full, all pens to paper.”

“And may yet again soon,” Hamilton says, sounds coming from General Washington’s office nearby.

“It seems some sort of a send off, does it not?” Laurens says. “A last day at work in this winter quarters, just we two.” Laurens’ eyes wander down to their hands near each other’s. “Side by side.”

“And with urgent correspondence we neglect?”

Laurens’ eyes tick up again. He smiles and glances at his French translation. In fact, Laurens looks to be finished by Hamilton’s measure. Laurens tips his head up again. “And who do you write now?”

“Duer, about the Baron. I have been interrupted enough and should finish.”

“Or perhaps your letter leads too long?”

Hamilton opens his mouth in some protest but Laurens chuckles quickly removing Hamilton’s ire. He finds Laurens so very beautiful when he laughs.

“Sirs,” Harrison walks through the door, General Washington near behind him, still reading a letter. “We have some reports which affirm most of the British retreat from Philadelphia.” Harrison half falls into seat at the opposite table. 

“Yes,” the General confirms, “We have much to maneuver.” He holds out the letter to Hamilton which he takes and another to Laurens. “Lt. Colonels, Hamilton if you will inform Major Dickinson of his orders to obstruct the enemy as much as possible from his position and Laurens, provisions in Philadelphia.”

Hamilton sees the name Wadsworth on Laurens’ page. They both reply with clipped a, ‘yes, sir.’ Then Hamilton hears the front door open with a flurry of conversation.

“– and word of a bridge they burnt in their wake.”

“Might you breathe first?”

“Oui, but of our own march?”

“I only have returned as well.”

The four voices quickly resolve into the faces of Meade, McHenry, Tilghman and the Marquis de Lafayette. The four of them salute together before even removing their hats when they see General Washington standing in the office door.

“Bonjour, Monsieurs,” Laurens says, a tone that perhaps only Hamilton notices of disappointment – far too many people now to hope for a return to their private, empty office.

“Marquis, if you will,” the General says and turns out of the office door, Lafayette following with a quick smile in at Hamilton and Laurens.

“Look who has finally ridden back to us,” Tilghman says as he walks into the office, his hand clapped on Meade’s shoulder.

“And tired for it,” Meade says. “Is it only just eleven now?”

“Near half past,” McHenry says as he sits across from Harrison.

“And you shall not wait long,” Harrison says. “I shall send you to York soon enough.”

“You write congress?” Laurens asks, what with York being the present location of their Congress driven from occupied Philadelphia.

Harrison nods. “Your honored father, as you might suspect.”

“I have a letter for York as well,” Hamilton says.

“Then to writing,” Harrison commands.

“Aye me,” Meade says pulling out a chair and sitting down with his legs splayed in an undignified manner. “Write, write, but you may do so slowly then you all allow my legs some leisure.” He peers into the jug of coffee near him now. “Is this warm?”

“I could find you tea instead,” Tilghman says turning from the room once more before Meade may respond yes or no.

“Please, sirs, we have much to write and but the day to do it,” Harrison says, his fatherly tone all too apparent.

Hamilton turns to Laurens beside him, both of them with new orders to send, Hamilton’s letter to finish and Laurens’ French to report on. Laurens glances up at him, a resigned expression to his face. Their solace of an empty office lost. In truth, they should not have expected any longer, what with their war tipping back into action in mere days. Laurens, however, looks at him with the same expression Hamilton feels within himself, he misses their time of peace even now.

 

The remainder of the day sees men and aides coming and going around Hamilton and Laurens in a swirl of activity. Meade leaves near noon with the correspondence for York, a comment about “and I think this a prefect compliment to my skills as a rider, of course.” McHenry remains among them but for the span of one letter written until he is whisked away to follow Lafayette, while Tilghman takes Harrison’s place in the General’s office. Harrison remains with Hamilton and Laurens, writing just as diligently into the late afternoon. 

Hamilton lets his leg lean close until his touches Laurens’ under the table, as so many times in the past. Hamilton realizes as the day wears on that he will mourn leaving this house, this long span he has had in such proximity to Laurens – to someone he cares for so much, able to keep him near, to hold him so many nights. After this, the war will return with the full force of horse and march and sword, not just their office and paper and dinners and reports. Hamilton will feel fresh the fear of them all – of Laurens – under threat and fire.

“Alex,” Laurens whispers to him as they put papers aside in preparation for the evening repast. Hamilton looks up at his Christian name and the tone of Laurens’ voice. 

Laurens smiles at him, some reservation on his face. Hamilton must show more of his feelings in his expression than he intends. “Do not worry so now.”

Hamilton only wishes to hold onto this odd sort of domesticity, this home, with Laurens always near for some hours more before they are pulled away.

 

Seven men sit around the table for dinner that evening. Of late, their large dinner gatherings, including visiting officers or other generals from the camp with Lady Washington presiding, have been held in a large cabin built behind the headquarters. When the weather turned warmer, it made for a more pleasant location than cramped into one of the smaller rooms of the house. However, they entertain no guests this evening – not counting the Marquis who is less a guest and more an honorary family member – and Lady Washington left Valley Forge only a few days past what with their own imminent departure. Thus, with Meade ridden for York and Fitzgerald not yet returned from Philadelphia, only General Washington, Lafayette and five aides–de–camp remain for the dinner; thus, the interior of the house has space just enough to fit their party. 

The two tables in the aide office pushed together make a table long enough for them. General Washington sits at the head with the foot empty. Hamilton, Laurens and Lafayette sit on one side with Harrison, Tilghman and McHenry on the other. The food serves them well, a fish soup to start followed by chicken and cooked tomatoes, a rare find which Hamilton cannot help but wonder on and a final dessert of apples and limes. The wine tastes sweet and the company is certainly good, but Hamilton cannot help notice the absence of Meade and Fitzgerald. Without those two, their company remains incomplete.

The first course is quiet, the occasional comment on the state of Philadelphia or tasks that remain incomplete. General Washington thanks them all for their service to his wife and the conversation centers around her own assistance and hostesses skills for a quarter of an hour. The atmosphere feels somber, Hamilton’s own mood much the same. He wants to pull himself from such malaise. As he said to Laurens earlier, they are not leaving each other, not any of them, only the place.

“A last meal in this house,” Laurens says to Hamilton as dishes pass around the table for the main portion of the meal and Harrison pours them all more wine.

“And no need to entertain,” Hamilton quips.

“You would not attempt to entertain me?” Lafayette asks from Hamilton’s other side, amusement in his tone.

Hamilton gives him a wry smile. “I do not count you as a guest. You may entertain yourself.”

Tilghman snorts from across the table and Hamilton sees General Washington smile slightly. Harrison cocks his head and gestures with his wine at Lafayette. “And what should you wish for entertainment this evening? Shall we ask Hamilton to sing?”

“No,” Hamilton says just as Tilghman says “yes,” far too brightly.

“Hamilton sings?” McHenry asks in a hush to the table at large.

Tilghman chuckles. “Oh, indeed.”

“Quite well,” Laurens leads off Tilghman, much as Meade may and certainly more cheerful toward McHenry then he is usually want. “But not often enough.”

Hamilton cannot help a smile. “Such compliments may incline me to.”

“I think we may do without singing this evening,” General Washington says with a half–chastising and half–humored look to Harrison and his side of the table.

Tilghman nods. “Quite, sir, of course, eating as a first priority.”

“And I think you all quite capable of conversation.”

“Yes, sir,” and “yes, Your Excellency,” ring around the table in varying levels of seriousness and humor, McHenry coming off as the most solemn and oddly Lafayette as the most amused.

“I am glad to inspire a conversation of quality for such a company as this,” Lafayette says. “In fact, I remember many a meal with inspired conversation of both political and personal natures.” Lafayette smiles in a fond way. “I do not think ever I had a meal here which did not send me forth feeling très content.” Then his face shifts. “Perhaps except…”

Every head at the table turns toward Lafayette. He makes a face and shakes his head once. “Non, non.”

“Come now, Lafayette,” Hamilton says. “We should rather know our failings as to improve upon them.”

“Certainly, if it is you we have failed,” Laurens adds.

Lafayette purses his lip and Hamilton sees he obviously meant to continue in such drama the whole time. Hamilton considers kicking him under the table but feels Laurens’ fingers brush his wrist. They must think the same. Then Lafayette pulls himself up taller in his seat and stage whispers, “Le chien.”

Hamilton, Laurens and Tilghman all laugh at once. Laurens puts a hand to his face while Tilghman nearly chokes on his wine. Hamilton shakes his head and grips Lafayette’s arm in memory of that night.

“A chicken?” McHenry asks in confusion.

Harrison huffs as he spears some chicken on his plate. “I can guess.”

“The dog,” Tilghman finally translates for the rest of the table not proficient in French. 

General Washington makes a low noise of disapproval while Harrison tilts back his head with a groan. “Dear Lord, that tiny animal.”

McHenry narrows his eyes. “May I suspect you mean one of the many dogs of General Lee?”

“Yes,” Every aide around the table replies hotly as Lafayette tilts up his head in some manner of disgust and mutters, “horrible creature.”

“And yet a guest in this house,” His Excellency tries to say with a serious tone though Hamilton sees the tense set to this mouth betraying his own feelings of either anger or humor.

“Sir,” Hamilton says, testing the mood, “I believe most our guests to be men and not beasts, and certainly not want to attack other guests. Can you not agree to this?”

General Washington stays still for a long moment then he picks up his glass. “I certainly did not invite the dogs along with General Lee.”

Cries and laugher erupt around the table as the General grins despite his usual role as authority figure and keeper of calm. Tilghman begins telling McHenry about the shaking of the paw as Harrison speaks low to the General, Hamilton catching the phrase ‘as best you could.’ 

Laurens leans around Hamilton to say, “Et vous êtes si courageux pour combattre le chien.” 

Lafayette replies with a ‘Ha’ and shows his hands, “not a scar on me what with the General as my savior.” 

“The dog attacked you?” McHenry cries in dismay making Tilghman laugh again.

“I cannot vouch for its good behavior,” General Washington says, a smile now on his face. “And I will not allow those under my command harmed in such a manner.”

“At least due to small dogs,” Laurens quips. 

“A very small dog,” Tilghman assures McHenry.

Hamilton scoffs. “Then perhaps some Generals should not bring them to the table.”

Harrison laughs this time, covering his mouth in clear embarrassment at the outburst but the General puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles still.

The table conversation continues lively, animated, and constant from there. Memories of months past – glad and morose – fly across the table from all parties present.

“Our ball game,” Tilghman says with a grin. “And the unchallenged winners.”

“It was not a game,” the General protests. “I most certainly did not intend –”

“To win so very well?” Lafayette interrupts, as few others ever dare.

Laurens taps his fork on his plate. “The four post bed for Lady Washington.”

The General raises his eyebrows. “And she thanked you well for it.”

“But the stairs,” Tilghman says in a grave manner.

Hamilton huffs as the memory of so many near deaths by furniture. “If you should have asked me a year before this what I should think myself doing for the army –”

“Oh, would you insult our General’s wife?” Harrison interrupts.

“I did not say so!” Hamilton scoffs in his own insult just as Tilghman sighs, “you cannot frame is thus.”

“The bed was not here when you arrived?” McHenry asks in surprise.

Tilghman beings a long rant about furniture and the positioning of rooms and their very office – McHenry in rapt attention – while Harrison’s focus changes to weariness about list after list after list and that if General Washington had warned him upon first request of Harrison’s services here, he may have declined. His Excellency, of course, does not appear to believe a word of what Harrison says.

“And what of your illness?” Lafayette says to Hamilton. “Something better to forget?”

“A lesson perhaps,” Laurens says.

Hamilton turns to him. “In what? How well I am able to overcome such trials?”

“Or write in bed?” Lafayette counters.

Laurens and Hamilton both chuckle, Laurens’ hand straying over Hamilton’s for a brief moment – finger tips pressing and Hamilton remembering Laurens steadfast at his bedside. Laurens says, “A lesson in patience for those awaiting your recovery.”

Hamilton’s hand curls around, Laurens’ hand cradled in his palm, his fingers pressing up against knuckles and Hamilton wants to kiss Laurens almost desperately. Then their hands turn apart once more, the pause of a second.

“And you, Monsieur,” Tilghman says sharply, turning his hand holding his wine toward Lafayette, “were Meade here, he would say much of your unfailing enthusiasm and optimism in our fight to be something both praise worthy and to curse.”

Lafayette says something quickly in French Hamilton’s misses then starts in on his own merits in comparison to Tilghman’s and Meade’s, “and you cannot tell me you do not use your humor to raise such sprits, I see you plain.”

“The Baron’s party.” 

Hamilton turns to Laurens as he speaks beside him. Hamilton smiles, his voice low. “Yes, the suspicious attire requirement party. Quite a night.”

Laurens grins slowly. “One worth such excess, I think.”

Hamilton’s eyes shift to the General, still engaged with Harrison then back to Laurens. “Well worth a rebuke for such a… stimulating evening spent in,” Hamilton’s lips twist in a wicked manner, “pleasurable company. In fact, I felt myself so enraptured, so possessed with sensation and desire for the… event, that despite how it did tire me greatly, I would have gladly spent twice as much time in such… heated frivolity.”

Laurens only stares at him for two breaths, clearly attempting to keep his stable countenance, then clicks his teeth together and his voice sounds breathy. “I cannot think what proper to say with such reminders.”

Hamilton grins, a win to his side in a game with no score, his knee pressing Laurens’ under the table as so many days in this office. “I think that well enough for my memory as much as yours.”

“Not something I should forget.”

“Or any other late night above stairs.”

Laurens makes a ‘hmm’ noise, “keeping warm with the cold outside still, deep under blankets?”

Hamilton breathes in slowly, Laurens brushing his hand over the hollow of Hamilton’s wrist as he reaches toward the middle of the table for the carafe of wine. Hamilton thinks of those hands pulling him closer, those hands along his jaw, his neck, holding him close for kisses and touches. He wants so much to be alone with a bed, in their room, and an empty house, just minutes if they could have it for Hamilton to bring every impassioned memory once again into reality. Laurens presses his lips tight as he pours them both more wine and Hamilton’s hand slips under the table to squeeze Laurens’ thigh quickly. Laurens shoots him a look as he puts the carafe down.

Hamilton smirks then looks innocently to his glass. “Thank you.”

“And what of the celebration for our French alliance?” Harrison says, Hamilton’s attention brought back the table at large and not just the one man to his right. Harrison smiles warmly. “Our Lafayette and his countrymen bringing such joy, a parade I shall not forget for the feeling of hope within me.”

“Here, here,” General Washington says, raising his glass.

Each man picks up his glass and toasts as well, Lafayette looking shy but more so pleased, and they drink at once. The dinner table seems anything but somber now, conversation and smiles around them and Laurens still seated by his side; missing their fellow aides but now lively and happy and it feels like some sort of a worthy farewell. 

 

Fitzgerald returns to headquarters but a half hour after the close of their dinner. Lafayette bids him good evening as he leaves, kisses to Fitzgerald’s cheeks just as he heads out the door for his own headquarters. Hamilton helps Fitzgerald with his bag and hat in the hall, sad that the man should have so narrowly missed their meal. 

“Philadelphia is empty of the British now,” Fitzgerald says to Hamilton as Hamilton pulls the few letters from Fitzgerald’s bag. “Some stragglers have been captured and give us reports of the British heading north through New Jersey.”

“We thought as much.”

Fitzgerald nods again, blowing out a breath. “I am so weary.”

Hamilton glances back quickly at the ready correspondence on the table set for work once more, Harrison before it, then turns around again. “Tilghman may take the next round, perhaps it should be better you find some sleep. You have ridden out twice today.”

“Yes.”

Hamilton thinks suddenly of an idea. “Take my bed.”

Fitzgerald looks at Hamilton in confusion. “Your bed?”

“I imagine it more conformable than your cot in the garret.”

“Likely.”

“And Tilghman shall not return tonight.”

“I would not wish to trouble –”

“I should not offer were it trouble.”

Fitzgerald looks at him a moment longer until Hamilton raises his eyebrows and nods toward the stairs. “Go, rest. We march early tomorrow and must rise before that. Better you sleep now.”

Fitzgerald smiles slowly. “I thank you.”

Fitzgerald hangs his hat on the wall then walks around Hamilton and up the stairs. Hamilton smiles once to himself with an equal measure of selfishness and selflessness toward Fitzgerald’s boon of a bed. Hamilton then turns into the aide–de–camp office and puts the new letters down before Harrison. Harrison’s eyes tick up only to the letters, his quill pausing. He sighs once then turns to the tinderbox near a candle by the wall and picks it up. Hamilton bites the edge of his lip but decides to say nothing. He glances across the room and see’s Laurens looking up from under his lashes at Hamilton. He raises one eyebrow slowly but Hamilton only shakes his head in reply. Hamilton picks up the ready letters – Wayne and Steuben in Laurens’ handwriting and another to Henry Laurens in Harrison’s hand – then exits the office, turning round and straight into His Excellency’s office.

Tilghman looks over from where he stands beside the seated General. Hamilton holds up the ready letters. “Correspondence ready for your ride, Tilghman.”

General Washington looks up. “Lieutenant Colonel Fitzgerald is returned?”

“I gave his letter to Harrison and sent Fitzgerald to rest. He seemed of need.”

General Washington nods. “Indeed.” He looks down at the page in front of his, clearly signs his name then hands the page up to Tilghman. “If you are to York,” he says to Tilghman, “You may meet up with General Wayne’s division and we shall see you then.”

Tilghman gives Hamilton a questioning look. Hamilton holds up the letter for Congress. “My regrets.”

Tilghman blows out a breath as he folds the General’s letter and walks toward Hamilton. “I shall be sad not to sleep another night here but perhaps it is also time to enjoy a change of scenery and situation.”

“And battle?” Hamilton says.

General Washington chuckles almost quietly enough to be missed but Hamilton and Tilghman raise their eyebrows at each other. The General laughing is a rare enough event even in the smallest amounts.

The pair turn together back out into the hall. Tilghman readies his bag quickly, a servant sent to do the same for his horse.

“Both you and Meade absent for our morning rise.”

Tilghman laughs once. “Oh, I do not feel any remorse in that at least. We are both like to sleep somewhat later than any of you shall what with a march at five and needing to pack all that remains of the house and army before that. Do you think to find any pleasant rest at all tonight?”

Hamilton feels a tug at his lips, his eyes drifting toward the aide–de–camp office door and where he sees Laurens seated at work. “I think perhaps I may find some.”

 

When the hour grows later, the night dark enough and their letters complete for the evening, Hamilton follows Laurens above stairs. His Excellency and Harrison ascended to sleep some mere twenty minutes before them, McHenry having risen even earlier and Fitzgerald long abed, so they say nothing as they walk. Laurens turns to bid Hamilton goodnight at the base of the stairs to the third floor but Hamilton shakes his head once. Laurens frowns, his eyes glancing to the room Hamilton usually shares with Tilghman. Hamilton touches Laurens shoulder and turns him around, pushing the small of his back so he rises up.

When they reach the attic level, Laurens walks to the small desk, lighting a candle. Laurens’ eyes tick to the second empty cot near the far wall for a moment then he turns back to Hamilton with a smile. “Did you wish for a longer good night?”

Hamilton grins. “You guess my mind well but you are but an inch off the mark.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, as I shall not be descending below again before the morning.”

“And how might that be?”

“I offered Fitzgerald my bed for the night, he so weary from his rides and surely deserving of a better place of rest.” Hamilton spreads his hand wide in a mock helpless gesture. “So, you see, it seems only right I leave him alone and take his pallet here.”

Laurens breathes in slowly and his lips press tight to clearly keep himself from grinning too wide. “Ah ha.”

“Yes.”

“A last night here.”

Hamilton breathes in slowly. “Yes.”

Laurens steps away from the light toward Hamilton. He comes around Hamilton’s back and grips the collar of Hamilton’s coat. He pulls gently until it slides down off and over Hamilton’s shoulders. He comes around Hamilton’s front, coat draped over his arm, then works Hamilton’s cravat.

“I do not mean...” Hamilton starts then sighs. “I know the men below us could...”

“I know,” Laurens says, looking up into Hamilton’s eyes. “Having you near is well enough for me now, Alexander.”

Hamilton feels very much as if he could pull out his heart and hand it straight to Laurens, watch it pulse and cry in Laurens’ precious hands, so much does Hamilton trust this man and care for his words and his eyes and the way Hamilton feels such utter bliss standing close to him.

“I shall miss this so very much,” Hamilton says quietly as Laurens finishes removing Hamilton’s cravat.

Laurens cocks his head as he works at the buttons of Hamilton’s waistcoat. “What is that?”

“A room such as this, alone, and quiet and near safe as we may be.”

“Yes?”

“Your hands just like this.”

“It shall not be the last,” Laurens replies, he now taking the turn of optimist as Hamilton had earlier that day in their office. “Do you think I should wish to cease touching you so?”

“It is the last here, a last night in this headquarters at Valley Forge.”

“It shall not be our only house of headquarters, it has not been before.”

Hamilton tits his head as Laurens opens the last button. “You know what I mean to say.”

Laurens’ eyes tick up once more. “I do.” His expression eases some into a similar bittersweet expression. “I feel much the same.”

Laurens turns to the desk and puts Hamilton’s coat over the chair then pulls off his own to lie atop the seat. Hamilton walks closer and wraps his arms around Laurens’ waist, resting his forehead against the back of Laurens’ neck. He listens to Laurens breathe, the beat of his heart, as Laurens pulls at buttons and cravat.

“I should wish to sleep beside you,” Hamilton says, “as we were able before.”

“Yes.”

“With a need to rise so early perhaps...”

“Do not mind it,” Laurens says as he turns around in Hamilton’s arms, forcing Hamilton to look up at him once more. “We shall awake before any others.”

“How, when I should feel so content?” Hamilton teases.

“Perhaps I shall wake you then.”

Hamilton’s lips quirk. “Oh? How might you?”

Laurens leans close and kisses Hamilton’s lips – firm and chaste, once, twice, and a third pressing deeper as his hand slides up over Hamilton’s cheek. Hamilton makes a soft noise as he kisses back and pushes his hands under Laurens’ open waistcoat.

Laurens smiles against Hamilton’s lips. “Where else should I kiss you to wake you so early, hmm?”

“Anywhere.”

Laurens chuckles in the back of his throat, his lips straying over Hamilton’s cheek then jaw, following its line to Hamilton’s ear, his tongue teasing so Hamilton feels himself shudder. “And everywhere?”

“Yes.”

Laurens kisses along Hamilton’s hairline, his hand at Hamilton’s neck and the other flat against his chest. He kisses Hamilton’s brow, his eyelids now closed with Hamilton’s focus on nothing else but those lips until they cover his again. Hamilton kisses back fervently – every time they have before in this room, in rooms below, in privacy, in darkness, in light, in this house that felt something like their own through so many months of snow and cold and work melting into sun and cheer and Laurens in his hands right now. Laurens kisses just as urgent, grasping at the cloth on Hamilton’s back, seconds from the two of them on the floor not caring about danger and officers and their General asleep below.

Laurens pulls back with a gasp. “I am sorry, I should not have...”

Hamilton sighs into a smile. “And I warned you so.”

“I cannot help but...”

Hamilton laughs and kisses him gently this time. “My dear.”

Laurens kisses Hamilton’s lips once more then rests his forehead against Hamilton’s. “Oh, Alex...” He chuckles. “Why should we act so? We shall be together still tomorrow and the day after.”

“I know.”

Laurens finally pulls back enough so they may look at each other in the low candle light once more. Laurens runs his hands up Hamilton’s cheek and into his hair. “It still feels like leaving.”

“It does.”

“But I shall be glad to see the resumption of battle.”

Hamilton huffs, his hand trailing over Laurens’ right shoulder, scars he cannot see through cloth. “Perhaps you shall do well to keep yourself from wounds once the fighting begins anew.”

“I do not seek them.”

Hamilton gives Laurens a glare but does not argue the point now. Instead he takes a reluctant step back. “We would do well to sleep now.”

Laurens purses his lips. “Yes.”

They dispense together of their waistcoats, boots, stockings and breaches, retaining their shirts and small clothes. As much as Hamilton would desire to sleep in only their bare flesh he does not trust their resistance nor their needed early rise. Laurens’ fingers tangle with Hamilton’s, his other hand touching Hamilton’s neck. He seems to stare at Hamilton as if he may not see Hamilton again, as if it is his first moment realizing the prize he has, he stares as though Hamilton made the world. Hamilton wants to drown in the gaze and keep those eyes as his own jewels forever.

Laurens lies down on his bed then, their hands parting and he looks up at Hamilton, leaving the choice of bed to him. It is not truly a choice though. Hamilton takes one step back, blows out the candle then steps close to the cot once more. He pushes Laurens aside and lies with him on the cot, daring the wood to creak or break with their combined weight.

“When shall we be able to lie together again after this?” Laurens asks, his voice a whisper and his lips inches from Hamilton’s.

“We shall find a way. We have before.”

“Yes, but...”

“I know.”

They have been spoiled, perhaps, when they shared a room for so many months and need only secure the door each night. Even now, when Laurens slept here and Hamilton a room below, with Fitzgerald long gone and the activity of the house less in winter quarters, kisses and touches at night were far more easily stolen than in other camps, more ready and hidden than they can ever be on the march.

Hamilton chuckles, leaves those thoughts aside. “I shall decide now to be happy enough to have arms around you.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes, and you shall too.”

Hamilton feels Laurens smile against his cheek in the dark. “I am well pleased every moment I have to touch you.”

“As you should be.”

Laurens chuckles quietly. “My dear.”

“My Jack.”

Laurens sighs in clear contentment. “Sleep, Alex.”

“How can I now?” He kisses Laurens’ cheek.

“Sleep.” Laurens puts his fingers up against Hamilton’s lips. “In the morning I shall kiss you awake.”

“What if I should wake first?” Hamilton says, curling his fingers around Laurens’ on his lips.

“Then you shall kiss me.”

Hamilton closes his eyes and smiles to himself, thinking not of the march or the ache in his hands or the possibility of McHenry on the stairs in only a few hours yelling for them.

“I shall,” Hamilton says, pressing lazy, sleepy kisses to Laurens’ cheeks and eyelids. “I shall wake you then.”

He thinks about the feeling of Laurens’ breath as his chest moves close against Hamilton’s, how Laurens’ ankles interlock with his. He thinks about how this may be a last night in this house but he will never allow it to be a last night with Laurens in his arms and bed.

 

When Hamilton awakes in the early morning, dawn not yet risen, he wakes to lips against his cheek, a sweet sigh, and a scratch of chin. He wakes to Laurens’ kiss pressed firm to his lips and Laurens’ voice saying, “Wake up, my Alex.”

Hamilton smiles as Laurens kisses just under his eye this time. “Good morning, my John.” Then he opens his eyes, the room still dark but with the sound of people moving below. “I see you won.”

Hamilton sees just well enough in the dark with Laurens so close to watch him smile. “I would have counted it a win either way.”

Hamilton and Laurens rise quickly – quicker than they would prefer when so warm and close and wrapped around each other. They find pieces of clothing belonging to the correct person, dressing in the dark with no need to waste a candle. Laurens packs the few things on the desk into his own bag as the light from the sun soon to rise starts to break the darkness. Hamilton helps Laurens dismantle his cot, gathering the pieces together and typing it fast with rope. He also does a favor to Fitzgerald and rolls up the pallet the man left, ready to be added to the baggage carts as well.

When they descend to the second floor, Fitzgerald meets them at the base of the stairs. “Thank you again, Hamilton, for the trade of bed.”

“A pleasure,” Hamilton says, being sure to not smile wide and stare at Laurens as Laurens continues down the stairs.

“I will tend to my bed –”

“I have put it to ready,” Hamilton says. “The servants will see to it now, you find food before our march.”

Fitzgerald raises his eyebrows. “You need not have –”

“Yes, yes.” Hamilton seizes Fitzgerald’s shoulders and turns him about. “Downstairs.” 

Hamilton pauses on the stairs to glance into the bedroom Fitzgerald took for the night. The wooden cot is tied up in its pieces, ready for travel. Hamilton’s trunk, previously packed, sits close to the cot. The other furniture in the room belonging to the house remains pushed further into the corners to allow the staff servants no question as to what shall travel with the army. Then Hamilton turns away again and joins the rest of the office downstairs.

“Please check the cabinets for any correspondence,” Harrison says to the first floor at large as he appears from down the stairs behind Hamilton. “We can leave nothing behind.”

“And we shall not,” McHenry says. “I can see no paper written or blank now.” Fitzgerald, however, still opens each cabinet in their aide office while McHenry waits at the door.

“Horses,” Gibbs says as he suddenly steps into the open front door from outside. “Most of the brigades are turned out and ready, don’t let us be the last.”

“Is not Harrison the mother of this office, Gibbs?” Laurens says as he exits General Washington’s office carrying two ledgers. “Would you take this role too?”

Gibbs scoffs. “Never, a mother does not provide her sons with spirits and lewd stories.”

“And you do?” McHenry says in some surprise.

Laurens and Hamilton both laugh. McHenry, still new by the current standards of their office, does not know Gibbs near well enough yet.

“I am no mother,” Harrison says appearing again from the side door toward the kitchen. Hamilton does not know when he left in that direction to begin with. “And if I were, you would all be most disreputable sons.”

Hamilton gasps in mock offense. “He cannot mean so.”

“Certainly not,” Laurens plays along.

“Oh, we know well he does not.” Fitzgerald grips Harrison’s arm and steers him toward the front door. “His pride in us is too much to measure.”

“The General’s office is –”

“Is seen to and emptied,” Fitzgerald interrupts Harrison with a gesture to Laurens who holds up the ledgers. “We need do nothing more now but mount our horse.”

Gibbs marches past Hamilton and Laurens as Fitzgerald pushes Harrison out the front door. Hamilton spies Gibbs opening the back door, shouting to the servants who deal with the kitchen and the back hut. Hamilton turns to Laurens standing close to him. He sees Laurens’ eyes lingering on the aide office. Then Hamilton reaches up and touches his arm. Laurens glances back at him. Neither of them give voice to their thoughts. Laurens clearly feels the same odd remorse as he; but duty calls them on and their war to win.

Outside General Washington’s aides–de–camp mount their horses. Down the road and beyond, Hamilton sees rows of men and wagon ready for the march. The sun has just begun to rise and the hour is now five. He hears the sounds of Captains shouting, hurrying on tired men. He hears the whinny of many horses and the creak of wagons, the sounds of the movement of thousands of men.

“Onward,” His Excellency says, his voice low but with the command that turns every aide–de–camp into trot behind him.

Hamilton rides beside Laurens, hats on their head, faces forward and no doubt a soon battle ahead of them. Hamilton allows himself one last glance over his shoulder at their headquarters – three stories, gray stone, kitchen to the left and barn further right, the window he knows belonging to the room where he and Laurens slept and kissed so many nights. It was not truly a home but their riding away feels like a farewell instead of just a moving on.

Hamilton turns back in his saddle, sees Laurens looking at him, then urges his horse on toward the next stage of their war, Valley Forge finished and behind them now.

**Author's Note:**

> This series is in the process of becoming a book, to keep up with the progress check out the book website [Duty and Inclination](https://www.dutyandinclination.com/) and my author [facebook page](https://www.facebook.com/DupontWrites).


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